


One For Sorrow

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Ravens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-18
Updated: 2010-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:57:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ask for something impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One For Sorrow

When Coward turns twenty-five, Blackwood offers him a gift.

"What do you want?" he asks. "Anything you want. Ask for something impossible."

Coward laughs. "I already have what I want," he says. Curls a hand around Blackwood's wrist. "And what else I might want, you already plan to give me."

Blackwood smiles at that, raises his hand to Coward's cheek. "But come now; surely there's something you want. Anything."

"I– no; no, there's nothing."

"Of course there is." When Coward shakes his head again, Blackwood says, reprovingly, "You hesitated. You've something in mind. Tell me."

"It's … it's silly. It's nonsense, really." He ducks his head and glances upward at Blackwood. "You'll laugh."

"At you? Never."

Coward laughs at that, but there's still a hint of hesitancy in his eyes. "Tell me," Blackwood says. "Please."

"I– I want to fly," Coward whispers. Swallows. Looks down. "I just– oh, it's silly." And no, Blackwood hadn't been expecting that, but …

"As a bird?" he questions, absently, his mind already working.

"Any way," Coward replies. "Never mind. It would be a waste of power, I know." He starts to step away, and Blackwood slips a hand under his elbow.

"I didn't say 'ask for something useful'," he says. "Did I?"

"No."

"Or 'ask for something possible'. The exact opposite, I believe."

"Yes. But–"

Blackwood silences him with one finger, pressed to his lips. "Nothing is impossible." He pauses, and Coward takes the advantage to close his lips around Blackwood's finger. "What would you say to a – no. Ah – to a raven?"

Coward stares at him, wide-eyed. "I– you're serious? It's possible?"

"I've done it myself."

Coward breathes in a short, sharp, stunned sound. "Yes," he says. "That. I want that."

Blackwood smiles at him. "Then that is what you receive."

*

There's surprisingly little preparation, but Blackwood is full of warnings. Coward smiles through all of them, teases Blackwood for caution where he normally has none. Finally, Blackwood grabs him by the arm, shakes him. "Stop it," he says. "Listen; these are important. I don't want to loose you to fancy."

Coward sobers instantly. "You won't. I'm sorry – I'm sorry. You know I'll be careful."

"Yes," Blackwood says. "But … it's different, as an animal. There's– there's other influences. Different priorities. The things you find important now aren't the ones you will then."

Coward watches him closely as he continues to lay out the tools. "Did you enjoy it, when you tried it?"

Blackwood pauses. "I– you have to watch how often you indulge, or you start to have trouble distinguishing, lose track of time."

Important, useful to know, but not an answer. "Henry," he says. "Did you enjoy it?"

Blackwood glances over at him. "You'll laugh," he says, and echo of Coward's own words.

"Probably," Coward replies and Blackwood smiles wryly at that.

"I'm not fond of heights," he tells Coward.

"Oh. _Oh._ And it doesn't compensate for that?"

"No – not enough."

"That's too bad," Coward says wistfully. "I was looking forward to flying with you. It would have been fun."

"No, it would not. I fly," Blackwood says, "like I'm drunk. It's not pretty."

"I've never seen you drunk."

"Nor will you. But I've no doubt you'll be far more elegant. Now come here, and be quiet."

Coward smirks, but rises and walks to him. Keeps his mouth shut.

Keeps it shut even when Blackwood says, "Repeat after me," until Blackwood raises an eyebrow at him, un-amused; and then he smirks and ducks his head and opens his mouth. He speaks, almost tripping over a word or two, concentrating on Blackwood, and then. Then.

Then there's – a shift. Something. Something in the air turns to copper on his tongue, the words heavy and tasting of coins, of blood, hollow in his ears. He watches Blackwood with wide eyes, feels something settle in his bones; shudders. He'd cry out if he could, but he's silenced, the room splitting in his vision, turning into a colorless print. He can feel something just out of reach, and he strains toward it, needing some relief, some release, and he cannot touch it, not until Blackwood slices his thumb open, presses it to Coward's parted lips, the blood tasting thin and sharp, and then he can't see anything, nor taste, nor hear, only feel, feel as though he's weightless, every muscle tensed as though at the moment of orgasm.

*

There's a terrible, still moment where everything seems stretched to the limits; then reality snaps back in, and there's a large black bird huddled on the ground where Coward stood. Blackwood stoops over it; it spreads its wings and totters back, nearly falls over. He offers a hand; Coward mantles, beak gaping open as he pants wildly. Blackwood waits.

Coward crouches there for several minutes, feathers slowly flattening, his eyes beginning to focus. He lifts one leg, than the other, almost loses his balance again. Blackwood reaches forward, and this time Coward merely watches him. He catches Coward's talons with one hand, arranges them until they grip properly, and raises him up, the other hand supporting him as he wobbles. Hold Coward before him; Coward cocks his head, bright black eyes a shade too intelligent, with a glint of mischief in them that's eerily familiar.

He shakes himself; spreads his wings out and fans the feathers, turns his head and preens. Blackwood laughs. "Vain creature," he says, and Coward chortles.

"Well, come on. Let's see how you do," Blackwood says, and tosses him up.

Coward squawks indignantly, beats his wings frantically for a second before he finds his balance. He careens around the room, once, twice, before settling on the window sill and cocking his head at Blackwood. Blackwood opens the window, snaps his hand around one spindly leg before Coward can launch himself out. "Half an hour," he says. Plucks a shining black feather, and releases him.

Coward lifts with a single swoop of his wings, drifts over the city and rapidly becomes a dwindling dot in the sky. Blackwood's a little jealous of the contemptuous ease with which Coward acclimated to the bird's body. He waits at the window, watches long after he can no longer see. Checks his pocket watch; a quarter past three. He turns back, begins to set the room back to rights.

After twenty minutes, he's checking the time every other minute.

At a quarter till four, he lights the feather on fire. "Come back," he whispers.

As the bells begin ringing the change, there's a flutter of wings at the window.

He doesn't look up. "Come down to the floor," he says. "Or you'll fall out the window when you change.

Coward alights on the floor, elegant even in that clumsiest of maneuvers. Looks up at Blackwood. Quorks.

"Think of something human. Something you want, something that's only human."

Several moments pass, and then there's that particular tightness in the air, a waver in his vision. As always, he tries to watch; as always, he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Coward is standing in the raven's place, swaying, his hands spread at his sides, flexing slightly. He takes one step forward and falls over.

Blackwood stands over him, offers him a hand; Coward takes it, and tugs him down. He kneels beside him, watches Coward's pupils dance madly. "Did you enjoy it?" he asks.

Coward reaches up, hooks his fingers into the knot of fabric at Blackwood's throat, and pulls him close. Drops his eyelids and lifts his chin and opens his mouth against Blackwood's. Blackwood chuckles.

"That's one way to ground yourself," he says. Coward moans into his mouth, and he takes pity on him and kisses him back, open mouthed and messy. Slides his hand down until it's pressed against a hard length, and Coward's hips shift. He moves like he's still uncertain of just how his body is put together, languid and halting and gorgeous. When he comes, his eyes fly open, focused for the first time since he changed, capture Blackwood's; "Henry," he gasps.

He's boneless afterward, and resists Blackwood's efforts to move them somewhere more comfortable. He clings, drags Blackwood back down every time he'd rise, until he gives in and let's Coward curl around him.

"It was … indescribable," Coward says. "I – there's no words. It was _wonderful_. I hadn't thought whether or not I'd be able to understand you, as a bird. But I could – I could understand anyone. Henry, think how useful that could be! I could find out so much for you; no one notices another bird." He hesitates, and then: "Dare I even ask when I can do it again?" he asks, with an utterly unrepentant grin.

"Any time," Blackwood tells him. Coward raises his eyebrows. "You don't need the ritual after the first time. It's in your mind now, how it should go, what it should feel like. It knows the paths. You need merely concentrate on the bird's form. But– you have to be careful. Promise me you'll be careful," he says, rolling over to face Coward. "I know you'll find it tempting, but don't spend too much time as a bird. You lose track of things, lose track of time, start to lose your sense of being human. You'll get lost in the bird if you don't mind yourself. And don't go back out without a reminder."

"What's that?" Coward asks, and Blackwood hasn't missed that he's promised nothing.

"Promise me. I'll help you make one soon, very soon, but promise me."

Coward sighs. "Alright. I promise." Blackwood tightens his lips, and Coward raises his hand to them. "I promise," he says, with considerably more weight.

Blackwood nods. "A reminder," he says. "It's– well, what it sounds like. A token, a talisman – something that's with you always, in every shape, that ties you back to your humanity. Reminds you that you're human, if you start to forget. Something that reminds you what you have to come back to."

"What if I don't have a reminder?"

"You can get lost. Forget what it's like to be human. Forget you are human. Live as an animal, die as an animal. Unless you have someone to pull you in, but you can't rely on that."

Coward tilts his head, watching Blackwood closely. "Was that what you did? Pull me in?"

"Mmm. You felt a tug? Something niggling in the back of your mind?"

"Yes. I didn't know what it was. Or why I needed to fly that way, until I saw the window. Then I remembered where I was."

 _Too close_ , Blackwood thinks. _Too close._ "I was calling you back. That's what the feather was for. If I hadn't had it, it would have been up to you to remember to come back. And caught in the first rush of flight? I don't know if you could have."

"I would have."

"You think so, but you don't know. I've seen it happen, Daniel," and he can't help himself from curling his fingers a little tighter around Coward's wrist, a little too tight.

Coward is silent for a moment, two. "The disorientation," he asks. "Is it always like that?"

"I'm told it fades, after time – both before and after the shift. Fades after repeated changes, but no one can agree on how long it takes. Although I'm sure it won't take many for you."

"Why?"

"The same reason you'll need to be extra careful; you've got a skill for it. I've never – _never_ – seen someone ground themselves that quickly. Be up and flying so quickly. And I've seen plenty; it was my first teacher's favorite trick."

Coward sighs, shifts and settles in closer against Blackwood's side. "He taught you this?"

"Tried. He wasn't happy when I couldn't master it." He frowns at the memory, at having tried so hard, and still, failing. "He's the one that came up the idea of a reminder, the tricks for it, after losing a few too many students. He'd never needed one, so it took him longer to realize that not everyone else was as … motivated. He figured out how to keep the object with you in every form, tapped into the quirk that allows clothing to remain; it was clever, probably his greatest work-"

"Henry," and it's a whine, it's a sigh, petulant. "You know there's no point in explaining how it works to me. It's not like I'll understand it."

"You don't try to understand."

"I don't need to. I know that it works; why should I need to know how it works? I don't want to. I don't _care_ to."

"You should. Coward, you've so much potential, and you won't even use it, won't even be bothered to try…"

"You want me to."

"Yes. I want you to."

Coward is silent. Finally, whispered: "Sometimes I think you deserve a better student than me."

"Don't say that. Don't even think that. Why would I ever want anyone but you for anything?"

Coward looses a shaky breath into Blackwood's neck. "I'll try," he says.

*

Coward meets up with him the next day with a smile half hidden. "I've found an appropriate reminder," he says. He sprawls in the chair across from Blackwood, allows the smile to stretch out into a grin. "Do you want to see?"

"You want to show me," Blackwood says, "so yes, I suppose I do want to see it."

Coward crosses his legs, right over left, and tugs his trouser leg up a few inches. There, snug around the bare skin above his ankle, is a wide band of dark leather, smooth and quietly gleaming. There's a small round medallion on the side, teasing Blackwood's vision. He slides out of his seat, to his knees before Coward, one hand cupping the back of Coward's ankle as the other turns the band.

The medallion is familiar. "Something I will always want to return for," Coward says above him, softly. Blackwood is still for a breathless moment; then he leans forward and presses his lips to the small copy of his own crest. Coward makes a small noise, the slightest of indrawn breathes, and he deserves a reward for such loyalty. For such sentiments.

For such love.

*

Coward takes to shifting so easily, as easily as breathing, as talking, and uses it as frequently. They can't be seen together in any familiar way; Coward can't be seen coming to his home, or he to Coward's, yet Blackwood's almost become used to coming home to clothes scattered round his rooms, Coward laid out across his bed, naked save for the band round his ankle that never comes off.

One night there's a storm, thunder and lightening to shake the heavens when he hears a rapping at his window. There's an utterly bedraggled bird outside, and he throws open the window hastily, ready to scold Coward for reckless risks.

Coward tumbles inside, shifts in midair and ends up sitting on the floor, dripping, wet curls plastered to his forehead. He's laughing.

"We should find a way to preserve my clothing's original state," he says. "Since showing up utterly drenched could be suspicious. Maybe tweaking the same modifiers that preserve size through change would work, although that might also result in showing up naked…" He grins up at Blackwood.

Blackwood lets the reprimands for reckless behavior die on the tip of tongue.

*

Blackwood's watching Coward sleep, sprawled out on the bed, wrapped round and round by sheets; he's a restless sleeper, but at the moment he is still. He threads his fingers through the dark mussed hair. Coward stirs slightly, presses up into his touch. He makes a strange, questioning sound in the back of his throat, one that is far too reminiscent of a raven's harsh cries. Blackwood freezes.

Bites his lip.

Coward opens his eyes and makes the sound again; blinks. "Henry?" he says. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Blackwood tells him. Leans down, kisses him hard and urgently, teasing out a startled, pleased breath from Coward. "Nothing," he repeats, biting at Coward's tender, sweetly opened mouth.

*

"Don't go flying for a while," he says. "Just a while."

*

When Blackwood returns to his rooms, Coward is pacing the edges, footsteps muffled by carpet. There a terribly frenzied quality to his strides, to the tension of his back, to the bitten lip.

He glances at Blackwood, and his eyes are feral. He doesn't pause in his pacing; Blackwood watches him. Waits until he steps too close and grabs one narrow wrist. "What's wrong?"

Coward jerks his head sharply, birdlike, and there's something vicious clawing inside him. "I–" he starts. Jerks his hand away and darts to the window, where he stands with both hands pressed to the glass, staring down at the street. "I had to go to the tower today. I'd– I'd forgotten about the ravens." He fingers flex against the glass. "They're clipped," he whispers, harshly.

Blackwood moves behind him, thinks about touching Coward. Watches him worry his lip in the glass instead. "They fear they'll fly away. Can't have them leaving the tower, causing panic in the streets. Easier to clip them than to keep England from falling."

Coward shudders. "They _can't_ fly away," his fingers clawing at the window. He glances up, meets Blackwood's eyes in the glass. Blackwood places a hand between his shoulder blades.

"We'll have no need to clip them once we take power," he murmurs. "They won't want to fly away." And it's terribly indulgent, perhaps foolishly so, but he's learned well that it is easier to make one want to stay than try and bind them.

Than to blind them.

Lure and bait.

Coward sighs, the tension exhaled with air, and bows forward until his forehead is pressed to the glass between his hands. Blackwood bends his head, tastes the strip of skin just above the collar of Coward's shirt.

"England will never fall while we hold the rule."

*

Coward is waiting for their discovery. Is waiting outside in the chill, listening with sharp corvine hearing for the sound of panic, for the quick clatter of feet on cobbles, the appearance of Holmes, having found them, fearing he's too late. He'll not be too late – Blackwood is prepared to drag the ritual out as long as he needs to, for as long as it takes Holmes to arrive.

Holmes drops, rolls, and comes up searching, finds the entrance, and Coward's only got a few moments before Holmes makes his way down. He doesn't expect any of the goons to stop him; that's not what they were hired for. Not that they told them that.

He spirals down, shifts in the shadow of one the many columns of the crypt. Steps forward, into the light; Blackwood sees him and nods. Coward glances up, out of the corner of his eye, searching, and _ah_ , there's Holmes. Taking his time, it seems.

Coward steps back, shifts. Later, Holmes will be puzzled by the lack of exits where the man with distinctive shoes disappeared, by prints that end in the middle of the blank floor.

*

He knows he's not supposed to visit, not suppose to make their connection visible to anyone, but no one will know if he shows up clothed in feathers.

Blackwood's cell isn't hard to find – there's only one grate with the seductive swirl of rapture rising from it. He lands on the wide ledge before the bars, sticks his head through them, and there, there is Blackwood. Looking not one whit less put together than usual.

He tries to get through, but the bars are a shade to close. He raps his beak against one, and Blackwood looks up sharply. Stands, revelations falling from his hand. "What are you doing?" he hisses.

Coward can hear the edge of anger in Blackwood's voice, but it's almost covered by worry. He dances from foot to foot, struts along the ledge. Eyes Blackwood and burbles out a stream of quiet chatter. Blackwood stands below the grate, lifts his hand to it. He can't quite reach it, not even with his height. Coward stops; sticks his head through the bars once more, as far as he can, straining.

Blackwood's fingertips brush the curve of his beak, so very gently, and he feels a knot begin to loosen in him. Blackwood sighs.

"It's obvious I'll have no luck in forbidding you to come again," he says, and his voice drops lower. "But be careful; please, be careful."

*

Coward laughs to himself as Holmes and Watson stare down at the coffin, dumbfounded momentarily. The police will remain so for far longer. He knows what they'll hear from the groundskeeper: that Blackwood was seen, walking with the morning mist swirling round his feet, a black bird on his shoulder.

The groundskeeper wouldn't have heard the quietly murmured praise and endearments Blackwood had given to him. He'd have blushed, had he been human; as it was, he ducked his head and nibbled lightly at Blackwood's ear, a low trill deep in his throat. Blackwood smiled, reached up and ran his hand over Coward's smooth black head.

Later, he'd return the lavish compliments the only way he could.

*

Coward perches on the roof of the carriage outside Sir Thomas's home. Blackwood hadn't asked him to come along; but he hadn't forbidden him either. There's nothing but silence from the house, and Coward knows how deadly silence can be. He can almost see Blackwood, waiting, waiting for the moment he can reach out and take what is rightfully his, the moment Rotheram realizes what he's been fighting against, the utter futility of it.

The door opens, and a dark figure emerges. Enters the carriage without looking up, but Coward's sure Blackwood's seen him. There is very little Blackwood misses.

He ducks through the window just as it starts moving. Shifts, sitting across from Blackwood, who gazes at him, a dark sort of smothered excitement in his eyes. "Did it go as anticipated?" Coward asks.

Blackwood says nothing, merely raises his hand before his face. Coward catches it, pulls it closer. He brushes fingers across the heavy ring, presses his lips to the black stone. Moves them to knuckle, and Blackwood moves in his seat, his breath catching in his throat with the quietest of sounds.

Coward takes in his flushed face, his feverish eyes, his breath a little too fast. Pushes Blackwood's legs apart and slides to the floor between them.

*

Blackwood's pacing the hall outside the room the order is convening in; he's not nervous, not really, or worried, but they've waiting so long for this…

There's a rustle of wings behind him. By the time he turns, Coward is already standing, arms spread, grin adorning his face. "Not a drop," he says. "I told you it would work."

Blackwood walks to him, pinches dry wool between his fingers. "I didn't doubt."

"He's just knocked; I'd best get ready." But still, Coward hesitates. Leans in and presses his lips to the corner of Blackwood's mouth. "Tomorrow," he says. "Tomorrow, we will be unstoppable. I won't let you down."

And there isn't time for it, not really, but this is important; he kisses Coward, heatedly, until his eyes are glazed with lust. "You never disappoint me," he tells him.

Coward draws in a sharp breath, his eyes closing as he trembles in Blackwood's arms. He steps back, opens his eyes. "Later," he says.

"Later," Blackwood agrees. "After we finish dealing with these fools."

*

Blackwood's setting aside the chill of the air, the chill of the docks that was dispersed by explosion, by the merry crackle of fire, reminiscent of the one burning in the grate. The raven that's been riding his shoulder since he stepped off the boat hops to his knee with a brief flutter of wings; blurs painfully. When he opens his eyes a second later, Coward is a heavy weight in his lap, flushed with triumph and grinning widely, and beautifully, beautifully naked. Coward leans forward and kisses the edge of Blackwood's jaw; blinks, his lashes brushing the skin, and mouths "Magnificent' into it.

"Tease," Blackwood growls, hooks his hands behind Coward's knees and pulls them forward, even as he leans forward himself, forcing Coward back. Coward yelps, his head bouncing off the carpeted floor a little harder than Blackwood had intended; licks his lips in a positively obscene manner, and wraps his hands around the lapels of Blackwood's coat. Blackwood knows how to deal with this; he kisses that traitorously tender mouth, biting out all the praises Coward is attempting to bestow. Slides his hand down low and runs fingers, runs fingernails up the underside of Coward's cock. Fucks him, hard and slow and too dry and presses his legs up, bends them double, _pushes_ ; turns his head to press his mouth to the counter of one pale leg; the one with the band of leather around it. Coward gasps.

*

There are hands grabbing at him everywhere, maddening, preventing him from following Blackwood; he can't even see Blackwood now, and something's gone wrong, something's gone terribly, terribly wrong. He has to get to him.

Coward curses and pulls away from the hands as much as he can. Be damned to it; if they win, it won't matter. If they don't… He concentrates, flings his mind to high spaces and wind swept skies, and the lords fall back as he shifts.

He flies straight for one of the many open windows, ducks through with his wings brushing the sides. He gains altitude over the city, searching for something familiar, trying to find the tug inside him to follow.

There; there, atop the bridge, and he can very nearly taste Blackwood's fear. _Don't look down_ ¸ he thinks, but he knows Blackwood can't hear him. He flies, faster, faster still, his heart beating too loudly as Blackwood falters.

As Blackwood falls.

The shock of it hits him; he nearly falls out of the sky, forgets how to fly. He can feel his form stuttering, and he concentrates on _bird_ as hard as he can. It helps; it dulls the pain a little.

He perches on the metal, looks down at Holmes, staring down at– at– staring downward. He thinks of attacking him; but that's not something a bird would do, and he's finding he's terribly tired all of the sudden.

He waits with Blackwood. Waits until they come for his lord, and their carelessness, their callowness, breaks something in him; he screams insults at them in the well suited sounds of corvine language. One of the policemen stoops down, throws something at him. He dodges it, easily, and continues to berate them, his wordless cries following them down the stairs.

He waits, watching the storm roll in, becoming drenched, his feathers heavy and water logged, remembering other storms. He ducks his head, examines the band round one leg. Worries at it, picks at it with his beak until it fall off, falls down to be swallowed by dark waters.

Blackwood was always so worried he'd forget to be human.

He hopes it won't take long.


End file.
